


Game Six

by petersnotkingyet



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse, Alternate Universe, Angst, Career Ending Injuries, Gen, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Major Character Injury, Stanley Cup, Suicide Attempt, Surgery, Therapy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-15
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-08-02 18:19:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16310300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/petersnotkingyet/pseuds/petersnotkingyet
Summary: Right when Kent thinks Jack can't take anything else from him, he takes hockey.





	1. Game Six

It wasn’t a clean hit.  Jack can admit that.  He tells himself it was just clumsy, not malicious.  He didn’t mean to hurt Kent.  He just wanted to put a little pressure on him after the way he’d torn through the Falconers’ defense to tie the game.  Jack wasn’t usually the one checking people though, and that was why they’d landed so awkwardly.  Kent’s legs had gotten tangled with his as they fell, and Jack had landed on Kent’s right leg.

Jack got up quickly.  He felt a little goofy, having fallen with the guy he was checking, but overall, he was no worse for wear.  He put a hand down to help Kent up, because that was the type of guy he wanted to be.  He could see two teenage girls behind the glass squeal at the gesture.

Kent didn’t take his hand though.  He didn’t reach for it or even look up from the ice.  Jeff Troy—Swoops, Kent always called him—shouldered Jack out of the way and squatted beside his captain.

“Kent?” Troy said.

“Please,” Kent finally gasped.  He sounded delirious; he was writhing on the ice.  He went to grab his leg, the one Jack had landed on, but he recoiled as soon as he touched it.  “Help me.  _Jeff._   Help.”

Kent finally looked up as Troy gripped his hand and signaled for the medics again.  The other Aces were closing in around their captain, but Jack could still see him.  His face was ghostly white, and he was dripping sweat.  “Please,” Kent said again, and Jack finally understood that something was really, truly wrong.

Medics from both teams poured onto the ice.  Kent was still out of his mind with pain, and it took a while before anyone could get an answer from him about what hurt.  The was no way he was skating off, so the stretcher was brought out.  The rest of the Aces were pale-faced and scared.  Kent was never the type to let anyone know he was in pain.  It was terrifying to see him down on the ice, writhing and begging for someone to help him.

Aside from a bad concussion his second season, Kent had come back to the bench with every other injury in his career—cuts, sprains, strains.  Hell, he’d played with a broken arm once when his replacement took a bad hit and needed to be checked for concussion symptoms.  It was game six of the Cup finals against Providence, and no one wanted to be on the ice more than Kent Parson.

He didn’t come back out though.  Kent wasn’t even in the building.  The medics had loaded him into an ambulance as quickly as they could, and it left the stadium only moments after play resumed.  There were still ten minutes left in the game, but the Aces were too shaken to compete.  Marty took the lead back, and the Falconers won.  It was game six of the finals, and the series was tied.

The Aces went through their post-game rituals on autopilot.  They hurried through their showers and got dressed still dripping.  None of the players talked to the press.  As soon as they could get out of the Falconers’ stadium, they were on the bus en route to the hospital.

It must have been a quiet night in the ER, because the waiting room was almost entirely empty.  The Aces filled half the room while two of the coaches went to get information.  Once they knew where he was, Swoops and Coach James went to see Kent while Coach Thompson talked to his doctor.  After twenty minutes, the coaches reappeared in the waiting room.

“How’s Kent?” Calum asked immediately.

“He’s sleeping,” Coach James said.  “He’s on a lot of pain medicine.”

“What’s wrong with him?” Franky asked.  The kid was only 19.  He’d just gotten his own place after living with Kent for his first six months in Vegas.  He’d cried on the bench while Kent was down.

“It’s not good news,” Coach Thompson said, sighing heavily.  “His knee’s blown out.  They said he’s not going to play again.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Scraps said.  “Parser always beats the odds.”

Several of the guys made noises of agreement.  Kent was a kid from New York playing hockey on the biggest stage in the world.  He was a 5’10 guy captaining a Stanley Cup winning team.  Bad odds didn’t stop Kent Parson.

“Scraps,” Thompson said.  “His knee’s gone.  Everything’s torn—ACL, MCL, LCL, everything.  His patella is shattered.  They’re not…” Thompson hesitated.  “They’re not even sure he’s going to walk again.”

Scraps sat down.  He hadn’t been still since they got off the bus, but he was now.  He looked like he was going to be sick, so Calum leaned over and put a hand on his shoulder.

“I know this isn’t the news we wanted to hear,” Coach James said.  “Parson’s the heart and soul of this team, and we all know it.  But we also know that he’s going to kick every one of your asses if we blow game seven like we blew the last half of that period.  We’ve got another game in two days, and you all understand how much this means to him.  So you’re all going to go see Kent for a second, two at a time, and then we’re going to get back on the bus and go get some sleep.  We’ve got work to do.”

They cycled through Kent’s room quickly.  He was still asleep, and the Aces were careful not to wake him.  Swoops was in the chair beside the bed, gripping Kent’s hand like he had on the ice.  He watched numbly as his teammates came in in pairs.  The young guys stared and chewed their lips.  The old guys, the ones who had known Kent for years, seemed to understand how devastated Kent was going to be when he woke up and heard the extent of the damage.  Some of them prayed.  Others just patted Swoops on the back and shook their heads.  There was nothing anyone could say.

Coach Thompson came in again after all the guys had headed back to the bus.  He’d brought Gatorades and food for Jeff.  The coach tended to be a hardass in front of everyone, but Troy had known him long enough to know he genuinely cared about all of them.

“Remember you just played a game,” Thompson said. “You have to take care of yourself.”

“Okay,” Jeff said hoarsely, nodding. 

“You can stay here tonight, but tomorrow, you’re sleeping in a real bed,” Thompson continued.  Troy nodded again.  The nurses had said there was no reason Kent couldn’t get his knee replaced in Vegas, and he was already scheduled for surgery back home the day after game seven.  “He’s going to want you to play, Jeff.”

“I know,” Swoops said.  Of course, he would.  Hockey was all Kent could think about most of the time.  “I just don’t want him to be alone when he finds out.”

Thompson nodded, and there was a long pause.  Then, he said, “You’re going to have to rally the guys.  I know Bens has an A too, but you’re Kent’s best friend.  It’ll mean more coming from you.  And I…”  Jeff looked up at his coach.  The man had a white-knuckled grip on the empty chair, and he couldn’t look away from Kent.  Kent had been an Ace for nearly a decade.  Thompson had known him from when he was a smartass eighteen year old still devastated over Jack Zimmermann to the leader and captain he was today.  He’d brought the team from obscurity to the Stanley Cup.  He turned Las Vegas into a hockey town.  Kent Parson was the face of the Aces.  “I want to wipe the Falconers off the map, you understand?”

Jeff nodded.  “I understand.”


	2. Game Seven

The streets of Las Vegas were pure insanity.  Going to game seven already promised mobs of people, but the fans had been enraged when they found out Kent’s injury was career-ending.  They wanted Jack Zimmermann’s head on a stick, and the Aces were inclined to agree.

Swoops had done his job rallying the boys.  They were all steely-eyed and focused.  They had a mission to accomplish, and they hadn’t thought of anything else for the past two days.  The Aces were out for blood, but they were going to be clean about it.  No one wanted to be thrown out of the game where they were supposed to avenge their captain.

Having Kent there was good for moral.  He was still in a wheelchair and gray-faced, but it reassured the boys to see him conscious and moving around.  The amount of pain medicine he was on made him lethargic and subdued, but they could all tell he was doing his best to keep things as normal as possible.  Franky pushed the wheelchair, and they went out early to get Kent set up near the bench.  As the rest of the Aces left the locker room, Swoops grabbed Calum and hung back.

“Petey,” he said to the goalie as they walked, “do you think you have a shutout in you?”

He knew it was unfair to ask.  Even in the regular season, they hadn’t shutout the Falconers.  They were an incredible team, and this was the Stanley Cup.  But Swoops couldn’t stop thinking about the way Thompson had looked at Kent in the hospital, like he was grieving.  He’d said, _“I want to wipe the Falconers off the map.”_

Peter Calum just nodded.  He was a very good goaltender.  He’d had eight shutouts that season, the most in the league.  He could do one more for his captain.

The Falconers had been prepared for the Aces to be determined.  Losing their captain was a huge blow, and they knew they’d want revenge.  They weren’t prepared for the focus it brought though.  At the end of game six, any sense of organization had been lost.  An Ace had been sent to the box every other minute.

There was none of that today.  They played clean, beautiful, furious hockey.  Jack couldn’t keep the puck for more than a second.  Whenever anyone could even make it to the goal, Calum was a brick wall.  By the end of the first period, the Falconers fans knew—deeply, sinkingly—that they would not be winning their second Cup today.

The final score was 3-0.  Two points from Swoops, and one from Franky.  Scraps had an assist.  Calum got his ninth shutout of the season.  Rather than flooding straight onto the ice, the Aces on the bench hurried to get Kent out.  Captain in tow, they poured onto the ice toward where the team was crashing into each other in their excitement.  When they saw Kent coming, the mob of players met them halfway.

“You got us here,” Swoops said, shouting to be heard over the noise.  “It’s your Cup too.”

Kent was crying before he realized it.  There were photographers all around them, so he dropped his head so no one would see.  The tears dripped onto his lap.  The Aces closed ranks around him, and Swoops bent to hug him fiercely. 

Then they were bringing the Cup out.  As captain, Kent got it first, but the amount of pain meds in his system had turned his arms to jelly.  For a split second, he thought he wasn’t going to be able to lift it, but then he did.  The Aces exploded into cheers around him, and Kent’s eyes closed.  With his eyes shut, he could pretend his skates were on and his feet were beneath him.  The Cup was in his hands, and everything was okay.  It was the last moment of peace Kent felt for a long time.

On the other side of the ice, the Falconers were watching the celebration.  Their families had been allowed down, and Bitty was finally reaching Jack.  Unlike last year, Jack didn’t see him coming.  He was too preoccupied watching Kent and his team, and Bitty found himself getting sucked in too.  The trophy was being passed around, and Kent’s face was wet with tears.  Jeff Troy was kneeling on the ice in front of him, trying to get as close as he could around the wheelchair.  His mouth was moving, and Kent was staring at his lap, shaking his head.  The expression on Troy’s face was heartbreaking, and Bitty wondered if he knew he was in love yet.

“Bitty,” Jack finally breathed, looking over at him.  Eric smiled softly.

“Hey, honey,” he said.  Last year, they had kissed, but today, they just hugged.  It was painful to get so close to the Cup and come away emptyhanded.  “Y’all played so good.”

“Bits, we got crushed,” Jack said.  He didn’t sound too sad though.  The Aces had throttled them in a way that left no questions about who should be leaving with the Cup.  “I think… I think I want to talk to Kent.  Say sorry, y’know.”

“Okay,” Bitty said.  He’d already told Jack a million times that Kent’s injury had been an accident and he didn’t need to tear himself apart over it.  “I’ll be right here.”

The Aces’ celebrations had calmed down enough for Jack to make his way across the ice.  But when they saw him coming, they closed ranks around Kent.  They did it carefully, though.  None of the photographers would have any incriminating pictures of them shutting Jack out.  It just looked like there was a mob of excited Aces between him and Kent.

“I just want to talk to him,” Jack said when he caught one of the Aces, Kyle Benjamins, giving him the evil eye.

“You’re not going to,” Bens said.  “Get out of here, Zimmermann.”

“You know I didn’t mean to-”

“It was a dirty fucking hit,” Bens interrupted.  “The media won’t say it and the league won’t say it, but we all know it.  They don’t even know if Kent’s going to be able to walk.  You did that to him.”

Jack stopped dead.  Bens was the first person who’d said it so clearly.  There’d been no shortage of articles about Kent’s injury, but none of them had been attacking Jack.  Bitty and the other Falconers had all reassured him that it was just a freak accident.  Even while Kent was being carted off the ice, Alexei had said, _“Don’t be beating self up, Zimmboni.  Parson is tougher than he’s looking.”_   Bens was the only one who had assigned blame so clearly.

“Go back to your team,” Bens said insistently.  The other Aces were starting to notice their conversation, and two of them moved to flank Benjamins.  “Leave Kent alone.”


	3. Two Months

Once the celly had calmed down, the aftermath of winning the Cup was bittersweet.  They’d all been working toward this for years, but there was no forgetting what had happened on the way.  Jameson, one of the old guys, had a new baby and was considering having her baptized in the Cup, but that idea went out the window as soon as Scraps said, “You want to baptize your kid in the cup _Jack Zimmermann_ shit in?”  “Jack Zimmermann” was the most hated name in Las Vegas.  The advertising team was already coming up with ways to market the Aces/Falconers rivalry next season.

Three weeks after surgery, Kent went to see Hank.  Hank was one of the Aces’ younger trainers, but he’d been with the team for nearly six years.  It wasn’t that Kent didn’t believe his doctors.  It was just that he trusted Hank.  He knew him.  Hank had gotten him through concussions and sprains and broken bones for the past six years.

Hank was quiet for a while, looking at the file and X-rays.  Kent was still in the wheelchair, but he’d been able to move around a little at physical therapy.  They were confident that he’d be able to walk.  He would have a limp, but that was better than what he’d been facing in the weeks before.

“The surgery went well,” Hank said.

“Yeah,” Kent agreed.  “That’s what they’ve been telling me.”

Hank sighed and set the file down.  Kent had lost weight since he hadn’t been able to exercise, and he looked very small in the chair.  “Kent, I don’t know what you want me to say,” Hank said.  “I can’t tell you anything different than your doctors.”

“I know,” Kent said, nodding.  “I think I just… I think I just wanted to hear it from somebody I know.  It still doesn’t feel real.”

“I understand,” Hank said.  He held the X-ray up to the light again, staring at the white block of the artificial joint.  Kent’s MRIs weren’t so sleek.  As bad as the shattered patella had been, the tissue damage was far worse.  “You can’t play on this, Kent.”

Kent nodded again.  He cleared his throat before speaking.  “Take care of the boys, alright?”

“You know I will,” Hank said.  “Have you been to see them?”

“Yeah,” Kent said.  “I see Jeff and Scraps the most, but I’ve seen almost everybody pretty recently.  Franky still comes over for dinner a lot.”

“That kid’s going to be good,” Hank said.

“Very good,” Kent agreed.

“Have you thought any about what you want to do next?” Hank asked.  “I know you’ve got enough money to dick around for the rest of your life, but that doesn’t really seem your style.”

“Yeah, I just don’t know,” Kent said.  He’d thought about going back to school briefly, but he’d dismissed the idea immediately.  He didn’t want to be Jack Zimmermann.

“You’ll figure it out,” Hank said.  He sounded more confident than Kent felt.  “Just give it time.  This is all still new.”

“I’m trying,” Kent said.  Hank hesitated before he spoke again.

“Have you taken your Cup day yet?” he asked.

“Come on, Hank, you know I haven’t,” Kent said.

“Are you going to?” Hank said.  “I know it’s a reminder of what happened, but it’s your Cup too.  You got your team to game seven even if you didn’t get to play in it.”

“I don’t know,” Kent said.

“Well, you better make up your mind,” Hank said.  “You’ve got a time limit.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Kent said, unlocking the wheels on his chair.  “I’ll see you around.  It was good talking to you.”

“Take care of yourself, Kent.”

Two months after game six, Jeff Troy found Kent on the bathroom floor.  There was a bottle of pain meds beside him, empty when is should have been half full.  He’d washed them down with liquor, and there was spilled whiskey drying on the floor.  Kent had thrown up not long after he took the pills, and he could remember thinking, _Jesus, Jack really is better than me at everything.  I can’t even kill myself right._ He still passed out though, thinking it might work after all.

When Swoops had to leave him on his side on the bathroom floor, lying in whiskey and vomit, to let the paramedics in, he noticed that Kent had put out extra water for Kit.  Her automatic feeder was full too.  Kent had planned for how long it’d take someone to find him, and just thinking about it made Jeff feel sick.

It was two weeks later before Kent found out that Swoops was the one to find him.  He called him as soon as he pieced it together, crying and apologizing.  It scared the shit out of Jeff to get a call from his best friend sobbing at two in the morning, and he was halfway out of his apartment before he realized Kent hadn’t tried again.

“I’m sorry,” Kent rasped.  “I-I remember what it was like-” He made a choking noise and cut off for a second.  “I remember what it was like t-to find Jack.  I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to do that to you.”

“Kent,” Jeff said, hurrying down the stairs, “I’m going to be there in ten minutes, man.  Everything’s okay.”

“I’m sorry,” Kent said again.  He was still crying.  Jeff could hear his breath hitching and Kit meowing in the background.

“It’s okay,” Swoops said as he crossed the parking lot to his car.  “Stay on the phone with me, alright?”

Jeff made it to Kent’s house in half the time it usually took.  Kent had stopped talking, but he could still hear his hitching breathing.  Swoops kept the phone to his ear as he climbed the stairs to Kent’s apartment and let himself in with his key.  He spotted Kent quickly, shaking and sobbing on the couch while Kit yowled at him from the floor.

“You’re okay,” Swoops said, trying to sound reassuring as he shut the door and crossed the room.  He grabbed a blanket from one end of the couch and wrapped it around Kent’s shoulders.  “I’ve got you.”


	4. Eight Months

Kent liked his new therapist better than the old one.  She seemed to understand how much of his identity had been based on hockey.  Ever since it had become apparent that he could go pro, he hadn’t thought of doing anything else.  There had never been a backup plan.  He hadn’t gone to college.  Even in high school, his motivation to do well had been to be allowed to play.  Since he was not only retired now but couldn’t skate at all, Dr. Grey was having him try out new hobbies.  Some of them he’d vetoed immediately, baking and photography among them, but others weren’t so bad.  He’d liked painting even if he wasn’t very good at it, and the pottery class he took had actually yielded a usable product.

Today’s was gardening, and Franky had come over to try it with him.  It was hard to keep much alive in the desert though, so they’d gotten succulents from the nursery.  Then, they went to a thrift shop, and Kent let Franky pick out a bunch of artsy little vessels to put them in.  The newly-twenty year old had collected a pile of mugs, jars, bowls, and other unusual containers, glancing at Kent for approval occasionally.

“They actually don’t look bad,” Franky said once had his last jade plant potted in a chipped tea cup.

“Yeah, well, this isn’t supposed to be the hard part,” Kent said.  His kitchen table was going to be a mess with all the potting soil, but like hell was he getting on the ground on the balcony to do this.  “You have to, like, actually keep them alive.”

“Whatever, dude,” Franky said.  “Let me take your picture.”

Kent played along, grinning with a tiny plant in each hand.  Franky laughed when he looked down the pictures on his phone, but he wouldn’t let Kent see.  Kent would find out what was so funny later that afternoon when there were pictures of himself with dirt on his cheeks on Franky’s Instagram.

“These look good,” Swoops commented that evening when he saw Kent’s half of the plants sitting in the window.  At some point in the last six months, Jeff had taken to staying most nights at Kent’s place.  “So how does gardening measure up to the other stuff you’ve tried?”

“Better than scrapbooking,” Kent said.

“Hey, I liked that one,” Jeff said.  “It got you to actually print out some pictures instead of just keeping them on your phone.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Kent said.  He sounded distracted, so Swoops glanced over to see what he was doing.  In his gym shorts, some of the surgery scars were visible through his brace, and Kent was staring.

“They’re starting to fade,” Jeff commented.  Kent looked up at him, seeming almost surprised to see him there.  “Did you sleep okay last night?”

 “Eh, not really,” Kent said honestly.  “I couldn’t really get to sleep.”

“Yeah, you’re a little spacy,” Swoops said.  It wasn’t a chirp though, so Kent didn’t blow him off.  He’d gotten used to the guys motherhenning him more than usual.  “Want to call it an early night after dinner?”

“Maybe a movie first?” Kent suggested.

“Yeah, that sounds good,” Troy agreed.  “You pick something while I finish heating this up.”

They ate dinner on the couch in front of a Marvel movie.  Jeff watched Kent more that he watched the movie.  He’d seen Franky’s post on Instagram while he was out, and the picture of Kent had left him a little breathless.  He was still missing a lot of muscle mass, but he looked much better than he had in the first months after the injury.  Light from the kitchen windows had been streaming in in the picture, and Kent looked happy.  The dirt on his cheeks made his freckles stand out, and he was smiling.

Jeff had nightmares sometimes where he could still see the look on Kent’s face when Jack Zimmermann had come down on his leg.  The shock had set in so fast Kent didn’t even have the breath to scream.  He’d just writhed on the ice—mouth gaping, eyes glassy, face pale.  In the years they’d played together, Swoops had never seen that look on his face before.  Not with a broken arm, not with a concussion, now when he got the flu and ran a fever of a hundred and three before they could drag him to the doctor.  _Please,_ Kent had said as soon as he could get the air to speak.  _Help me.  Jeff.  Help._ But there was nothing Jeff could really do.  He got Zimmermann away from Kent and squatted by him to put barrier between his captain and any rogue pucks or players.  He’d held Kent’s hand and signaled for the trainers, but none of that really made any difference.

Swoops didn’t want to think about that today though.  It’d been eight months since Kent got hurt, six since Troy had found him in the bathroom.  He was doing better.  Right now, he was sleepy and content on the couch, watching the movie through half-lidded eyes, barely awake enough to laugh at the jokes. 

“You’re staring,” Kent mumbled sleepily when he finally glanced away from Thor.

“Just a little,” Swoops said.  Kent smiled and readjusted his position.  Kit was dozing on his stomach, and his bad leg was propped over Jeff’s lap on the end of the couch.

“Tomorrow’s a roadie, right?” Kent asked.

“Yeah,” Swoops confirmed.  He knew Kent didn’t really need to ask.  He knew the schedule backwards and forwards, but he didn’t want to remind Jeff of that.  “Chicago.”

“Fucking Blackhawks,” Kent mumbled. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Jeff agreed.  Roadies without Kent were almost worse than home games.  His ritual was fucked either way, but during away games, he had to travel without Kent and think about how later that night Kent would be trying to distract himself from the game he couldn’t help turning on.

The Aces hadn’t named a new captain after Kent’s retirement. No one wanted to replace Kent.  Instead, they’d joined a growing minority of teams with three alternates.  Some people were surprised that Franky was wearing the A considering his age.  The team had been in favor of it though.  The kid was good, nearly as good as Kent had been at his age, and it didn’t feel right to choose anyone else.  Franky was Kent’s protégé through and through, and he’d cried when he found out he was getting the A.

Kent was asleep by the time the movie ended.  Jeff turned the TV off and eased himself out from under Kent’s legs.  He considered waking him briefly before grabbing a throw blanket instead.  Kent didn’t stir when he draped it over him.

“Goodnight,” Jeff mumbled to the quiet room.  It would be an early morning to catch their flight to Chicago, and he knew he would probably be gone before Kent woke up.  Jeff took a moment to watch Kent’s chest rise and fall before he flipped the light switch off and went to sleep in the guest room.


	5. Interlude: Bob and Alicia

Bob and Alicia were watching when it happened.

They’d been coming to as many of the playoff games as they could, and they hadn’t missed a single one since it reached the finals.  Bob was rooting for his son—of course—but he could also appreciate the beautiful hockey Kent and the other Aces had been playing.  While a final between the Aces and the Falconers made for some tense games, it was certainly exciting.  As if that wasn’t enough, the two teams had been neck and neck for the whole series.  The Falconers needed to win this game, or the Aces would be taking home another Cup.

The two teams came out of the first period tied.  No matter how explosive Jack, Kent, and the other forwards were, both team’s defenses were too solid for anyone to break away in points.  Jack scored at the end of the second period, but it didn’t phase the Aces.  Kent came back onto the ice fresh in the third, broke through the Falconers’ defense, and tied the game.

Bob was the hockey player, but Alicia had spent years watching his and Jack’s games.  They both spotted the precise moment that Jack’s gaze locked on Kent.  His skating changed immediately, strides lengthening to catch up, because Kent had always been so, _so_ fast.  Jack usually went for the puck, not the check, but today was different.  He hit Kent at full speed, and they both went down.

Kent was one of the smaller guys in the NHL, but no one would have stood a chance in his situation.  All 200 pounds of Jack—plus Kent’s own body weight—came down on his leg right.  His knee bent to the side grotesquely, and the screens over the stadium captured the blood draining from his face in vivid color.  While play stopped and Jack popped back up, Kent writhed on the ice. 

“Oh god,” Alicia murmured.  The sound was muffled by her hands, folded over her mouth like she was praying.  She was on her feet beside Bob, but they were both frozen there.

Jeff Troy was kneeling beside Kent while Aces pulled trainers and doctors onto the ice.  They were coming from both teams, and it was clear from the expressions on their faces that it wasn’t good.  Troy had pulled off Kent’s gloves and his own, and his grip on Kent’s hand was white-knuckled.  The herd of Aces surrounding their captain was blocking the cameras, but the image of Kent’s face going white was frozen in Bob’s mind.  He could only think one thing, and it came out of his mouth as they watched the trainers ease Kent onto the stretcher.

“Jack did that,” Bob said, barely above a whisper.

“He didn’t mean to,” Alicia said immediately, but she didn’t sound certain.  Jack hadn’t meant to do this, but there was no mistaking the way he’d locked onto Kent.

The Falconers coaches held Jack on the bench for the rest of the game for fear of retaliation from the Aces.  The remaining fifteen minutes went by in a blur.  Marty scored on Calum, and the Aces didn’t even put up a fight.  As soon as the final buzzer sounded, they were rushing to get off the ice.

Bob and Alicia only saw Jack for a few moments after the game.  The Falconers were celebrating a game six win in the Stanley Cup final, but it was tinged by what happened to Kent.  Several people stopped to give Jack a reassuring pat on the helmet before he made his way over to his parents.

“You okay?” Bob asked after hugging his son.

“I’m fine, Papa,” Jack said.  “It wouldn’t have been such a bad hit if we hadn’t landed wrong.”

That wasn’t exactly true, but Bob nodded anyways.  “We’ll call Kent in the morning,” he lied.  Alicia glanced up at him, but Jack didn’t catch it.  “If we get ahold of him, I’ll let you know how everything is.”

“Okay,” Jack agreed.  “We’re going to go get something to eat.  Do you guys want to come?”

“I think I’m going to have to call it a night,” Bob said.  “A little too much excitement for an old guy like me.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” Jack promised. 

Alicia waited for her son to disappear back into the crowd of Falconers before speaking to her husband.  “We’re going to the hospital, aren’t we?” she said.

“Yeah.”

It took time for them to get through traffic and to the hospital.  By the time they made it to Kent’s room, Jeff Troy was the only one there.  He was dozing in one of the chairs beside the bed, head dipping down toward his chest.  Bob and Alicia had met him a few times before when they went to see Kent.  Troy was protective of him—which was good—but he’d always been suspicious of the Zimmermanns.  Their presence in Kent’s life had decreased after Jack went into the NHL and there was more likelihood that word of their visits would get back to him.  That hadn’t done them any favors with Jeff Troy.

Bob knocked lightly on the door as they stepped into the room, and Troy’s head snapped up.  For a second, he didn’t seem to recognize them, and then his eyes narrowed.  Kent didn’t stir.

“Visiting hours are over,” Troy said.  His voice was flat but not unkind.

“You’re still here,” Alicia said.

“I’m his emergency contact,” Troy responded.  Bob and Alicia winced.  Kent never had a very good relationship with his mom.

“I gave the nurse a hundred bucks to let us in here,” Bob said, taking the chair beside Troy.

“That’s not safe,” Troy mumbled.  “She could let some fan in here.”

The three of them were quiet for a moment, all watching Kent.  The sheets were pulled up around his right leg so the nurses could check it through the night.  They had him in a brace from hip to ankle, straps fastened loosely to accommodate the swelling.  His face was pale.  There was an IV in one of his hands—pain medicine and saline.  He had to be dehydrated after a game like that.  After a long moment, Alicia stepped forward to stroke Kent’s hair away from his face.

“Oh, Kenny,” she said quietly.  Troy looked down at his lap.

“He might wake up a little if you hang around a while,” Troy said.  “I don’t think he really knows what’s going on though, with all the pain medicine.  He’s mixed up.”

Bob nodded.  “We’d like to stay a little while,” he said, “if it’s okay with you.”

Alicia was still standing beside the bed when Kent’s eyes flickered open nearly half an hour later.  He blinked drowsily several times before he saw her.

“Mama?”

“You’re okay, Kenny,” Alicia said.  She smoothed his hair down again, and for a second it looked like the gesture was going to put him back to sleep.

“I don’t feel good,” Kent mumbled after a pause.  Alicia glanced over at Troy.  He’d said the amount of pain medication Kent was on had him confused, and he was only half awake now.  There was no reason to tell him what had happened before he could really understand it.

“You're okay,” Alicia said again.  “Just a little sick.”

“Oh,” Kent said.  He was already starting to flag.

“Just go back to sleep, baby,” Alicia said.  “Everything’s okay.”

“Okay,” Kent agreed.  His eyes closed, and his breathing evened out in seconds.  Alicia forced herself to step away from the bed.

“We should go,” she said to Troy.  “Let you get some sleep.”

Troy didn’t argue with her.  “Do you want me to tell him you were here?” he asked.  “He probably won’t really remember this in the morning.”

Alicia looked at Kent one last time.  He looked just the same as he did when Jack brought him home the first time and they fell asleep in front of the TV.  “Tell him we were here,” she said, “but we don’t have to go into detail.  We were just checking on him.”

Troy nodded and stood to see them out.  Bob squeezed his shoulder before he stepped through the doorway.

“Take care of him, son.”

Troy nodded again, the muscles in his jaw tightening.  “I will.”


	6. Ten Months

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter follows Jack instead of one of the Aces, so Kent's teammates are referred to as what Jack would know them as instead of their nicknames. Here's a cheat sheet in case that's confusing.  
> Jeff “Swoops” Troy  
> Daniel “Franky” Franklin AKA "the kid"  
> Kyle “Bens” Benjamins  
> Andrew “Scraps” Scrafford   
> Peter Calum = Aces goalie

They were playing the Aces today.

Jack had faced Kent’s former team since the Cup, but it was always jarring.  The Aces were having a good season, especially considering they’d lost their top scorer, they were always on their A game when they played the Falconers.  Las Vegas really hated Jack Zimmermann, and there was no forgetting why.

At the end of December, Jack had scrolled through a Buzzfeed article titled “100 of the Year’s Most Powerful Photos.”  Number 74 was a snap of Jeff Troy kneeling on the ice in front of Kent’s wheelchair, the Cup held between them.  There was something visceral about the picture.  The raw emotion on Troy’s face, Kent weeping, their hands touching on the Cup.  It felt like a moment that shouldn’t have been shared with the whole world, but now that it was, you couldn’t look away.

The caption had read, _“Las Vegas Aces teammates Jeff Troy and Kent Parson hold the Stanley Cup two days after Parson suffers a career-ending injury.”_ That hadn’t been the only conversation about game six that came late.  After Jack and Bitty came out, there’d been a lot of speculation about the nature of Jack and Kent’s relationship, and the general conclusion was that it hadn’t been platonic.  The theory only gained traction when Kent decided to come out.  In November, a tweet proposing that Jack had targeted Kent because of their history exploded online.  Jack never had to address it directly, but there had been several days when he could feel curious eyes on him every time he stepped into a room.  Until the next thing came along, everyone was wondering if Jack had intentionally taken his ex-boyfriend off the ice.

The worst moment, though, had come without warning.  When Jack couldn’t sleep, he liked to watch NHL compilation videos on YouTube.  He’d been watching “Dirty Plays by Good Players”—his fourth video of the night, after “Goalie Penalties” parts one and two and “Into the Bench—when he recognized the Falconer’s stadium.

Before he had time to process what he was seeing or click away from the video, he was watching himself follow Kent across the ice and throw his body into the hit.  He watched himself come down on Kent’s leg and pop back up like he hadn’t done a lifetime’s worth of damage in one moment.  He watched Kent frozen in shock for a moment before he gasped in pain.  He watched the Aces gather around and the doctors and trainers come out onto the ice and the Falconers usher him away and the fans grow quiet and the stretcher come out and-

They were playing the Aces today.

Jack went through his pregame ritual on autopilot.  Bitty, anticipating the effect playing Kent’s team would have, had managed to make it to the first Aces game, but it was April now and he was cramming for finals.  Jack had reassured him that everything was fine, but the words had done nothing to mute his own anxiety. 

He arrived at the stadium early.  Usually, knowing he had time to spare made him calmer, but today it just wound him up more.  Marty was there too, and he clapped Jack on the shoulder before they both quietly continued their routines.

“Alright, Zimmboni?” Tater asked when he arrived.  He was much less subtle in his reassurances.

“I’m alright, Tater,” Jack said.  “It’s just another game.”

“That’s right,” Tater agreed, smiling broadly.

It wasn’t, of course.  Peter Calum only allowed two goals, while five got past Snowy before the coaches mercy-pulled him and put the backup in.  That was supposed to be a wakeup call for the rest of the team, but the final score was 6-2.  Jack was frustrated and sore.  One of the Aces’ defensemen—Scrafford—had been on top of him every time he got anywhere near the puck.  He’d taken check after check all night, and neither of the Falconers’ goals had come from Jack.

It was Scrafford and Troy he ran into after the game, standing together in the hall like they were waiting for someone.  Their expressions hardened when they saw him, and their heads bent closer together.  Jack caught his own name as he walked by.

“It’s hockey,” Jack snapped.  “Kent knew the risks, so you can all stop acting like I _killed him_ or something.”

“You motherfucker,” Troy growled, lunging forward.  Scrafford caught him before he took more than a couple steps, but they both looked murderous. 

“Wait,” Jack said.  “Did he-”

“Piss off, Zimmermann,” Scrafford interrupted.  They tried to turn away from him, but Jack wouldn’t let it drop.

“Did Kent try to kill himself?” he asked again.  Troy closed his eyes.

“I swear to God, if I hear anything about this from someone else,” he threatened, “I’ll kill you myself, Zimmermann.”

“When?” Jack asked.

“Two months after the Cup,” Troy said.  They must have done a good job keeping it out of the press, because Jack hadn’t even heard rumors.  “I found him.”

“Is he… is he getting help?” Jack said.

“I don’t think that’s any of your goddamn business,” Troy said.  When Jack didn’t let up, he rolled his eyes.  “He’s getting help.  We’re not going to just let him…”

Troy trailed off, and his expression changed.  He looked a little sick thinking about the possibility of Kent dying.  Even with his experience since graduating Samwell, Jack was surprised.  He hadn’t expected the Aces to be so close, especially now that Kent was no longer on the team.

“I’m serious, Zimmermann, if this hits the press or if I hear guys who shouldn’t know talking about it-”

“I’m not going to tell anyone,” Jack said quickly.  “I mean, Eric doesn’t count, but-”

“Eric counts,” Scrafford interrupted.  “If you’ve ever been any kind of decent, if you ever cared about Kent even a little, don’t tell your social media hound boyfriend who hates Kent’s guts that he tried to kill himself.  It’s none of his business.  It’s none of _your_ business.”

“Jack,” Troy said.  Jack couldn’t remember if Kent’s best friend had ever called him by his first name before.  “Please.”

All three of them were silent for a beat, and then Jack nodded.  “Okay,” he said.  “I won’t tell Eric.”

“Thank you,” Troy said.

Daniel Franklin—the kid who’d gotten the A after Kent retired—appeared around the corner.  “Sorry that took so long guys,” he said.  Jack was out of his jersey, and his back was to the kid.  Franklin hadn’t realized who he was yet.  “Are we ready to…”

There it was.  He trailed off, staring at Jack like he couldn’t think of a reason on Earth Scrafford and Troy would have a conversation with him.  Jack knew Kent and the kid were close.  He’d seen plenty of Instagram posts of the two of them, starting from when Franklin lived with Kent.  There had been a post of Kent with plants in his hands and dirt on his cheeks two months ago that had reminded Jack of what it was like to love him.

“We’re ready,” Troy said, cuffing Franklin on the shoulder to steer him down the hallway.  “Let’s go, guys.”


End file.
